Out of Somalia
by maigonokaze
Summary: ON HIATUS Ziva's time in Somalia at the end of Season 6 and her re-acclimation to life in DC. The rating is for a reason, people! This is a mature story involving rape, torture, and other sensitive issues. For ADULTS only.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:** I do not own NCIS. I do not stand to make any monetary or other gain from writing this fanfiction.

**Warnings:** Rape, torture, racism and Antisemitism, ideologically sensitive material... more things might come up later and I will edit this as necessary.

* * *

><p><strong>September 22, 2009<strong>

Ziva was completely still. She listened to the beating of her heart, the quiet inhale and exhale of her breath from her lungs, and the thrum of the plane's engines, echoing in the cavernous belly of the military transport on which Vance had arranged for them to catch an overnight ride to D.C. She listened to the absence of those sounds which had accompanied her for the past several months – the voices in Arabic, the guards' heavy steps, and the running and shouting of men training for whatever mission Saleem would send them on next. She had thought that only death would free her from the sounds of that place.

She looked around, suddenly aware that she had been staring into nothingness for hours. The inside of the plane was dimly lit by red floor lights and the flight crew was all in the cockpit behind a heavy metal door. Crates filled most of the cargo bay, leaving only room for a few jeeps and narrow walkways down the sides of the plane, lined with canvas sling-seats. McGee and DiNozzo had each claimed a bench-seat in one of the jeeps to lie down and were fast asleep. Gibbs was slouched comfortably in one of the canvas seats, his eyes closed and his breathing steady.

Ziva stood and moved to stand beside a narrow window. The lights on the wingtips blinked in a constant rhythm, illuminating the wisps of cloud swirled by the plane's passing. She crossed her arms over her chest and focused on the vibrations of the plane beneath her feet, trying to keep the memories at bay.**  
><strong>

* * *

><p><strong>June 23, 2009<strong>

The day she was captured had been a day of gunfire. The smell of gunpowder and the acrid taste of smoke and sand-filled air filled her lungs long after she was brought down. They bound her hands behind her and dragged her to a small cell. A single, bare bulb provided light after the door was slammed behind her and the men went to take care of those she had killed or wounded.

Left alone, Ziva examined the room she was in. The thickset wooden door, about a meter wide, filled one side of the room. The other three walls were lined with empty wooden shelves. Ziva guessed that the room was originally intended as a pantry or storage of some sort. The walls extended back two meters from the door, creating just enough space for a person to lie down and sleep. Ziva turned so her back was to one of the shelved walls and sought out the wood with her bound hands. She pushed down, applying as much force as possible in an attempt to break the wood. It didn't budge.

Ziva shifted around the cell, trying every piece of shelving she could reach. A broken piece of wood or an exposed nail could saw through the rope tied around her wrist. It could be used as a club or shank to help her fight her way out; however, as much as she pushed and pulled from every angle she could manage, Ziva was unable to pry loose a weapon.

She heard voices outside the door and tensed. She moved closer to the door, straining to distinguish the words but all she could make out was that someone was ordering a guard to stay outside her door and that Saleem would question her later. Then she heard one pair of footsteps approach and stop not far from her door, while all other sounds receded. Ziva backed up to the center of the room and sat facing the door. She waited.

* * *

><p><strong>September 22, 2009 <strong>

Ziva woke to the barely audible sound of footsteps approaching. She had fallen asleep sitting up and her head shot up as her eyes opened, rapidly taking in her surroundings and the man that stood directly in front of her.

"Ziva," Gibb's familiar voice washed over her as Ziva's heart rate slowed after her abrupt awakening. "We're about to land."

"Good." She stood, stubbornly ignoring the pain that shot up her legs and through her body. The plane was taking its cargo to Norfolk but had agreed to drop them in D.C. As soon as the wheels hit the tarmac, the aft loading deck began to drop. It touched the ground just as the plane turned down the take-off runway and halted. Gibbs led the way as the team exited the plane. The moment they were clear, the loading deck raised and the engines powered up again for take-off.

Ziva looked up at the sun, one hand shielding her eyes from the full brightness of its glare. It was different. There was no measurable way to state the difference, but it was there. This was not the sun that shone in the azure skies over the Negev Desert, nor was it the red orb that hung over the Sahara. As they drove back into the city, Ziva rolled the window down and reveled in the feel of the warm sun and the wind blowing against her face. She didn't speak to her teammates in the long ride through DC traffic and they respected her silence.

As they exited the elevator at NCIS, the entire office stood and clapped. Abby wrapped her in a tight hug and Ziva leaned into the embrace. She was uncertain what the future held for her, but for an instant, she simply enjoyed the sensation of physical contact with someone who was not trying to cause her pain.

* * *

><p><strong>June 25, 2009<strong>

The door scraped the floor as one of Saleem's men pushed it open. Ziva jerked to full awareness; her head snapped up as she woke. She had slept sitting upright in her cell. Her hands were still tied behind her back from when she was captured the day before. She squeezed her hands into fists and flexed her fingers, forcing blood into the numb digits.

Ziva's legs were stiff and her balance distorted by her bound arms; she shifted her legs under her and pushed her back up against the wall, propelling her body forward into a standing position. The guard at the door watched her dispassionately. His body filled the doorframe and Ziva could see two more men behind him. She scanned them all, making note of what weapons they carried and where they might have more tucked into their clothes. She looked up and met the first guard's eyes, her gaze unwavering.

The man snarled, furious at the challenge he perceived from this woman. He lunged forward, swinging toward Ziva's face. He punched her, hard, and Ziva rocked back into the shelved wall at the narrow end of her cell. He drew back for another blow.

"Ali! Not now, that's enough!" One of the two men at the door barked for him to stop and Ali was distracted for an instant. Ziva bent slightly and slammed into him, her head and shoulder rammed his chest and he fell to the ground on his back. Ziva dropped on top of him, her knee at his throat.

Ali struggled to dislodge her, fighting to draw breath. Lights swam in his eyes and black regions in his vision threatened to claim him. He saw movement as his two compatriots entered the narrow space and seized Ziva. They lifted her off of him and pinned her to the wall. Ali rolled over and coughed as his lungs greedily took in the air. He stood as his partners placed a thick woolen bag over Ziva's head.

Ziva threw her head back, trying to escape as the bag engulfed her and cut off her vision. She felt several blows to her ribs and kidneys before her legs were kicked out from under her and she was forced to her knees. A heavy boot struck upward, connecting just under her ribs and driving up, causing her diaphragm to spasm. Ziva doubled over and gasped. The butt of a gun connected with her head and she dropped the rest of the way to the ground.

Ali and one of the other guards each grabbed one of her arms and half-lifted, half-dragged her out of the cell. Their hands gripped her and wrenched her shoulders painfully. Ziva was dazed from the blow to the head, but fought to maintain consciousness. She focused on obtaining what information she could via her remaining senses. She counted the guards' footsteps and noted every turn. She smelled the aroma of unwashed bodies as they passed what she guessed was the barracks. The guards stopped to open a door and took her inside. They placed her in a chair and tied a rope around her waist. Ziva detected a slight wind on her back and felt the warmth of the sun from the window behind her. One of the guards ripped the bag off her head and Ziva's eyes adjusted to the light as they walked out and shut the door behind them.

It was at least an hour before Ziva caught the smell of a cigarette releasing its final scent as it was crushed into the dirt. The door opened and Saleem walked in.

Ziva did not know how much time had passed, but eventually she felt the sun's heat leave her back and the cool of night settle around her. Even after dark, it was a long time before Saleem finally stopped hitting her. Over the course of the day he had come and gone, asking questions and beating her until she passed out, then leaving only to return again as soon as she regained consciousness. At some point in the last session, he had struck her so hard that her chair fell to the side with her still tied to it. Rather than set her upright, Saleem kicked her repeatedly while she was on the ground. He asked the same questions over and over, but never received a response. "Who are you? Why did NCIS send you here? Who else is on your team?"

She winced as he kicked her again, but still said nothing. He waved two of his men into the room and ordered them to take her back to her cell. They righted the chair and untied her hands, moving them around and rebinding them in the front before they cut her loose from the chair. She stood and they flanked her, standing so close she could feel the heat radiating off their bodies. When they arrived at the cell, the guards pushed her in and locked the door.

Several hours later, three guards came and woke her. They seemed to have learned their lesson earlier – two of them entered the cell immediately upon opening the door and subdued her while the third brought the black bag down over her head. When they removed the bag, they were standing in front of a small room with a hole in the ground about 3 inches in diameter. The stink of raw sewage rose up and invaded Ziva's nostrils. They pushed her in and stood in the doorway. There was no door and they would not have given her any privacy even if there were one. She was too dangerous to leave unwatched.

Ziva turned away from them as she fumbled to undo her pants. With her hands tied in front of her, it was difficult to navigate as she pushed them down, trying to keep her body turned to shield herself as much as possible. The guards did not look away as she squatted over the hole. She balanced carefully on the balls of her feet – with her hands tied, she had to focus just to maintain her balance. After she was done, they took her back to her cell and locked the door. The single light in her cell remained illuminated all through the night.

Life fell quickly into a routine, albeit a painful one. At least once a day, the guards came to take Ziva to the interrogation room. Sometimes they came at dawn, sometimes midday or the middle of the night. They varied the schedule to keep Ziva off balance. When she did sleep, she never knew how long she would be able to rest before they came to get her again. The massing bruises all over her body made it painful to move and even more so to try to lie down. Usually they came every day to take her to the backroom. She was fed twice a day, given just enough nourishment and water to keep her alive. The light in her cell was sometimes left on for days and at other times she was left in utter darkness. This was supposed to distort her ability to measure time; however the change in temperature in the desert was so drastic from day to night that she was able to count the days. The walls were too hard to scratch in a tally count without a tool and Saleem's men would have destroyed it if they had seen her do something like that. Ziva's count was more subtle. There were five shelves lining the walls of her prison. Ziva placed a single pebble next to the wall on the bottom shelf and moved it up each day. On the sixth day, she moved it back to the bottom shelf, but slid it over one hand span.


	2. Chapter 2

**July 6, 2009**

The sessions with Saleem were painful, but thus far contained nothing unexpected. He asked questions and she gave no answers. He asked questions in English, always about NCIS. Ziva surmised that he had not yet connected her to Mossad. Sometimes he beat her himself and at other times he stood by and watched while his men did the work. He knew, as did she, that brute force alone would not break her. All of this was just a precursor to coming torture. As her body was weakened by constant abuse, it would drain her reserves so that she would not have the strength to fight when he did begin serious interrogation. For now, however, Ziva resisted.

The pebble was on the center shelf, two handspans from the wall; Ziva had been imprisoned for thirteen days. The questioning changed from simple beatings to more advanced forms of interrogation. They strapped her down to a table and taped exposed wires to her in order to run raw electric current through her body. Ziva screamed until she passed out, but did not answer their questions. They shoved splinters of wood up under her fingernails, held fire under her bare feet, and forced her head underwater until she was an inch from drowning. Ziva screamed and struggled and her body was wracked with tremors as she fought to control the pain through sheer power of mind; she did not give Saleem what he wanted. He knew no more now than he had when she was captured. She had been seen in DC with NCIS, but they knew nothing more – not her name, or her connection to Mossad, or even that she was Israeli. But with each passing day, each time the pebble moved up another shelf, Ziva remembered the most important lesson of interrogation – everyone breaks. She could fight it and win for a while, but she knew by this point that nobody was looking for her. Her only hope was that Saleem would make a mistake and kill her before she broke and endangered other lives by providing him information.

* * *

><p><strong>July15, 2009<br>**

On the twenty-fourth day, just as the morning cold was lifting, Saleem came to her cell. Ziva immediately knew that something was wrong – he had never come to her cell before, but had always waited for the guards to bring her to his interrogation room. Ziva lifted herself to her feet, her hands tied in front of her now, as they almost always were. Saleem stood in the doorway, and two of his henchmen lurked behind him, their hands on their AK-47s. "Talk to me. Tell me what I want to know."

Ziva shook her head. "I have nothing to say to you." Her lips cracked as she spoke and her voice rasped over the words; but she stood with her back straight.

"Are you sure about that? If you talk to me now, I can stop things from getting… unpleasant… for you."

Ziva cocked her head, knowing that her answer would displease him and that she would suffer for it. "No. I will tell you nothing. I make a habit of not dealing with devils."

"Very well then," as Saleem walked out of the cell, he turned to his men and spoke rapidly in Arabic, ordering them to blindfold her. Before Ziva could react, the thick black bag came down over her head. They forced her to walk with them, not in the typical direction toward the interrogation room, but outside. Ziva knew the moment they stepped into the sunlight and she breathed deeply, drinking in the air even through the sackcloth covering her face. About ten paces away from the building, she heard Saleem speak, "On your knees, Jew."

Ziva dropped slowly to her knees; her world seemed to slow as she took in the sensation of every grain of sand pressing against her through her pants. A gun touched the back of her head, but she remained completely still.

"You are going to die, bitch. Do you want to at least give me a name to put on your grave?"

Ziva closed her eyes, waiting for the bullet. "No." Her voice seemed to echo, hanging in the air in front of her with a hollow resonance.

She was not sure what to expect. She knew that she would not hear the gun fire or feel the bullet penetrate her skull – not with a shot to the head at point-blank range. Her death would be quick and painless. That was more than she could have dared to hope for. She imagined that she would simply _go _to whatever came next, whether that was heaven or hell or empty nothingness. But the bullet never came.

Instead, she was shoved forward. As she extended her bound hands out, she caught her weight, not on sand, but on wood. Behind her, hands pushed and boots kicked, shoving her body until she was positioned completely on the wooden base. Ziva turned, her hands reaching up to remove the bag from her head. At least one pair of hands caught her wrists and held her. Another person reached in and yanked the bag off, giving Ziva back her sight. She glanced around momentarily, taking in the walls of the box that they had put her in. One wall of the box was opened like a door; that was the hole though which she had been forced in. She saw the man who held her wrists reach for a knife. She tried to stand, but other hands held her down. The guard brought the knife close and cut the ties that bound her wrists. Then he pushed her backward and slammed the door.

Ziva threw herself at the sides of the box, trying to push the door open before they could get the lock in place. For an instant, she felt it move outward, but then more men outside put their shoulders against it and the bolt slid into place. Inside, Ziva raged. She fought the walls and ceiling of this small cage, trying to find any escape. There were a few holes drilled in the top to allow air to enter. Those would be the weakest points of structural integrity. Ziva reached her fingers up through the holes and pulled down, using her entire body weight in an attempt to open up an escape. Outside the wooden walls, she heard Saleem and his men laugh as the box rocked and groaned under the force of her efforts. When her fingers snaked up out of the air holes, they slammed their fists down on top, causing her to retract.

Saleem called out to her, "What's wrong, Jew? Don't like your new home? How about we stick you in the ground, just like that? Would you enjoy it? Or we could just leave you in there to starve. I think that is fitting. Suffocating in the ground is too quick for you." Ziva did not reply, but redoubled her efforts, trying to find a single weak point where she could push her way out. Eventually she tired and shrunk back against one of the sides, one leg extended in front of her and the other bent at the knee. She leaned back, her head resting against the wall. The box was a little over a meter (around 3.5 feet) on every side. She had enough room to sit up, curl in the fetal position, or squat awkwardly; but no room to stand or stretch her limbs out. In one corner there was a single empty bowl, but apart from that, the interior was bare. Through the air vents in the top, she could only see the sky and the wood was fitted snuggly on the other sides, preventing her from looking out any cracks. Judging by the absence of laughter and taunting voices, Saleem had left. The distinct scent of cigarettes told her that there was at least one guard still nearby.

That night and the next day passed. The night was cold; Ziva curled up and shook on the floor. The bowl had suggested to her that she might be fed, despite Saleem's remark that she would be left to starve. By the second day, however, she doubted that was the case. Her throat was parched and her stomach pinched uncomfortably. She knew that the hunger was not nearly as much of an issue as dehydration. The top of the box offered shade from the Saharan sun, but she could still feel its unceasing heat sap all the moisture from her body.

Ziva had slept fitfully throughout the day, knowing that the nighttime cold would keep her awake again. She was unable to sleep for more than an hour or two at a time, since every time she heard Saleem's voice or any of the guards approaching too close to her box, she woke to adrenaline pumping through her veins. As evening approached, she regarded the still empty bowl that rested in one corner. The thought of what she was about to do was not appealing, but it was survival. Ziva squatted over the bowl, slid her pants down around her thighs, and pushed what liquid was left in her body out into the small bowl.

Her urine was dark from dehydration, but would still help. She could drink it and her body would absorb any nutrients that it had not processed the first time through. If she stayed in the box without food and water long enough, however, Ziva knew that eventually there would be nothing left to gain from drinking recycled urine – it would turn black as she used up every bit of the available nutrients and then she would die of thirst.

Ziva waited until well into the night before she drank the urine. Even less appealing than drinking piss was the thought of drinking it still warm. Once the night air had cooled it she lifted the bowl to her lips and drank, fighting her gag reflex and forcing her throat to accept the vile-tasting liquid. She knew that it would probably be better if she just died before she ended up breaking and betraying the intel she knew. But there was something inside her that just had to fight, had to live, no matter what it took.

* * *

><p><strong>September 22, 2009<strong>

"Come on, Ziva," Gibbs said, looping an arm over her shoulder. Ziva steeled herself against the sudden contact. The average observer would not have noticed, but she knew that Gibbs had felt it. "Let's get you to Bethesda to get checked out."

"I'm fine, Gibbs," Ziva replied. She was tempted to shrug his shoulder off but decided against it. "I don't need to go to the hospital."

"Yes." Gibbs turned her to face him. His arm that had rested across her shoulders moved so that his hand gripped her by one shoulder. "You do."

Ziva felt the pressure of his hand, warm and comforting. Her shoulder was badly bruised from where Saleem and his men had struck her and pinned her down so many times. That shoulder had been dislocated twice during her captivity. Both times she had reset it herself. "Gibbs," she said. "I am sure that Vance wants me debriefed as soon as possible. We should start with that. I promise you, I have no injuries requiring immediate medical attention."

"If not Bethesda, then at least let Ducky look you over." It wasn't a request.

"Fine."


	3. Chapter 3

**September 22, 2009**

Ziva was silent as Gibbs led her down to Ducky's autopsy room. The clean white walls glistened in the florescent light and the tile floors gleamed. Ziva had spent the past several months covered in sand and dirt and sweat and filth. The cleanliness of this place was unnerving. The light was too harsh on her weary eyes; the air too cool around her flesh. Gibbs stood beside her in the elevator but did not say a word. It wasn't right. Nothing felt right.

"Go on in." Gibbs nodded her toward the autopsy room. "Ducky's waiting." Ziva looked at him. She wanted to say something to make things right between them, but she couldn't think of what that would be. The last time she had spoken to Gibbs was in Israel. She remembered the feeling of betrayal like a kick in the gut. Gibbs had left her there, standing on the tarmac – all alone in a country that no longer felt like home, if indeed it ever had. It was her own fault he had left her – she knew that now. But the sense of betrayal had stayed with her for months. Her regret at pushing him to it stayed even longer.

Ziva stepped through the doorway. The door clicked closed behind her. She closed her eyes. The Mossad-trained officer heard rather than saw Ducky approach. She recognized his walk. Ziva wanted to open her eyes, wanted to greet Ducky, but something held her back. Everything was wrong. The plane ride back had been a silent affair, Gibbs was reserved and distant and Ziva didn't know how to react to Tony. Abby had hugged her, but even while Ziva had embraced the goth, she could feel Director Vance's eyes on her and she knew that eventually she would have to speak to him. That was not a conversation she was looking forward to.

Ducky stopped and leaned back against one of the autopsy tables. He clasped his hands in front of him as he observed Ziva. He would wait.

"I always said that I would never let myself be taken alive," Ziva stated. She looked up and met Ducky's gaze.

"My dear, I doubt that you had very much choice in the matter," the older man said kindly. He patted the table next to him and Ziva walked over, hoisting herself up so that she was seated perched on the edge. "Now then, are you in any pain?"

Ziva shrugged. Pain was something she had lived with constantly for the past several months. It had grown to be so much a part of her everyday life that she barely noticed it anymore.

Ziva lay down on the table and stared up at the white ceiling. Ducky chattered quietly while he checked her over. Ziva was not quite paying attention to his stories, but just the sound of his voice was comforting and familiar. He had that special gift that some doctors possess of being there without being there. He was quick and efficient and professional and Ziva bared her scars before him with only a minimum of discomfort.

As he worked, treating her wounds, Ziva couldn't help but think about how different everything was now than the last time she had been in D.C.

"I have nothing here," Ziva realized, interrupting Ducky's story. Her apartment had been blown up just before she returned to Israel. She'd had a car, but Officer Hadar had sold it on her behalf. Once it was clear that she would not be returning to DC, her father had ordered that all her remaining assets be liquidated. She sat up and swung her legs back over the side of the table. Ducky held up a hand to stop her.

"X-rays first." He gestured at her shoulder – the one that had been dislocated several times. Ziva had not said anything about it, but the bruising pattern gave it away. "I am guessing that a dislocated shoulder was not the worst of your injuries."

"No, it was not," Ziva replied. "But the rest have healed."

Ducky insisted. If any breaks had healed improperly, they could cause more problems in the future and would have to be rebroken so that they could be set correctly. Ziva lay back down while Ducky set up the X-ray and then stepped away. She closed her eyes. She knew the damage that Saleem had done. She did not need to see the images. She knew every place that her bones had broken; even the most infinitesimally thin fracture had caused weeks of pain and limited mobility.

When the images had developed, Ducky slid them into place against the light box on the wall. "Oh Ziva…" he said quietly.

Ziva slipped off the table and moved to stand next to him in front of the X-rays. "It is over," she stated simply, although she was not sure whether she was speaking to herself or to Ducky.

* * *

><p>Gibbs had called the Navy Lodge and gotten her a room. He offered to drive her, but Ziva declined. "I'll walk," she said, "The air is good." He did not offer any response, which Ziva chose to interpret as permission.<p>

Ziva was well aware of the dark car that followed behind her as she walked through the Navy Yard. It was a painful reminder that she did not belong here. She was not American. She did not work with NCIS anymore. She was Israeli. She was Mossad. She was a foreigner here and, as such, merited observation as long as she was on the base. She could not leave the base either – Gibbs had passed that message along from Vance. Technically speaking, she was a foreign operative, a known spy and assassin, and she was here under American authority until they debriefed her and decided what to do with her.

The shadowy world into which Ziva had been trained was a dangerous place – she had always known that. When she started at Mossad, one of her first assignments had been a mission into Syria. The Syrian intelligence had captured a two French agents; Ziva had retrieved them and brought them to an underground bunker inside Israel. When she reported back to her father, his orders had been simple: "Break them. Find out everything they know." That had been her first lesson that there would be no allies in her world. It took her three weeks to break the first one. She was young and inexperienced and so it had taken her longer than it should have. But she did the job. The other never even knew what was going on. He believed her when she told him that his partner had died of injuries sustained while escaping from Syria. They released him back to his government and the issue was never spoken of again.

Now, more than a decade later, Ziva couldn't help but think of that Frenchman that she had interrogated.

The car had tinted windows and made no effort to hide the fact that it was following her. Ziva would have liked to wander, to stretch her legs and reacquaint herself with the Navy yard. But she walked directly to the Navy Lodge without detours. Ducky had tried to talk her into wearing a boot – there was minor damage to her left ankle – but Ziva refused. He had also cautioned her against walking too much or any sort of strenuous or excessive movement.

The clerk at the Navy Lodge asked for ID when Ziva said that she had a reservation. That gave Ziva pause. "I don't have any," she was forced to admit.

The clerk cocked her head to the side. "How do you not have ID? How did you get on the base?" Ziva saw the young woman's hand reach for the phone.

"I can vouch for her," said a voice from behind. Ziva turned. A young man was standing in the doorway, a set of keys in his hand. Ziva narrowed her eyes – she had only seen him a few times, but she recognized him as one of the junior staff members at NCIS. "Director Vance asked me to make sure she arrived here safely."

The civilian behind the desk still looked suspicious, but the young man flashed his badge and presented a signed document from Vance. He turned to Ziva and smiled. "I'm Devon McMasters," he said. "Vance assigned me as your protection detail."

He held out his hand, but Ziva ignored it. _He's nothing but a rookie_, she thought.

"Sign here," the clerk said, pushing the form across the desk to Ziva.

Ziva signed and took the key.

She got in the elevator and hit the button for the fifth floor. Just before the doors closed, the young man from NCIS slipped through. Ziva said nothing. When she got off the elevator, the man followed. Ziva did not speak until she reached her hotel room door. She stopped in front of the room, her back to the man. Even though she could not see him, she was precisely aware of his position approximately five feet behind her. She knew that he had a gun at his waist, but that the holster strap was on, and that he did not carry a back-up. She knew exactly how many milliseconds it would take for her to strike him and disarm him, even in spite of her injuries. No matter what her physical or emotional condition, Ziva was a well-trained weapon. And a good weapon is always prepared to strike.

"Officer David?" the man asked. He sounded young. He had only been at NCIS for a little more than a year. Ziva felt old. _He has probably never killed anyone_, she thought. _I killed a man long before I ever had sex with one. _

If the young man noticed her pause, he did not say anything. He probably had not noticed anything. American training did not emphasize observation the way Mossad did. "I'll be right outside if you need anything."

Ziva nodded and let herself into the room. It swung closed behind her and she heard the lock click into place.

It was a nice room – a queen-sized bed, a flat-screen TV, and a mini-fridge. She turned on the tap in the bathroom and stared for a moment at the gush of water that poured out. Water had been her primary concern over the past few months. Every sip had been slow and measured, designed to conserve her ration of water as long as possible because she never knew when she might be given water again. To see the quick flow pouring out of the tap was shocking. She glanced at the tub and realized that she would finally be able to wash away the caked dirt and sweat that covered her body.

She stepped back out into the main room. Ziva pulled back the curtains and looked out the window. It had been a long day. It was not even sunset yet and Ziva was already exhausted. The bed looked inviting and Ziva momentarily weighed the idea of just falling into bed against the benefit of a bath. The bath won.

It probably would have been easier just to shower, but it felt good to sit and relax in the water. She ran the water so hot that it practically scalded her skin as she scrubbed at the layers and layers of filth. The water swirled dark around her and Ziva drained the tub and refilled it with clean water. The pitifully small bottle of shampoo/conditioner was not enough to clean through her tangled web of hair. She had to drain and refill the bath at least twice more before she managed to get clean.

When she finally emptied the tub for the final time and wrapped herself in a warm, soft, towel, Ziva remembered that she had no clean clothes to wear. All she had was the shirt that she had been wearing when she was captured and a pair of pants and jacket that had once belonged to one of Saleem's men. As soon as she redressed in those clothes, it didn't matter how long she had spent in the bath: she felt the filth of the desert covering her again.

* * *

><p><strong>July 19, 2009<strong>

After four days, Saleem went over to the crate just as the sun was peaking in the sky. He beckoned the guard who was currently on duty to follow him a short distance away. "Is she still alive?"

"I think so." He hurried to clarify his statement when Saleem's face darkened at the ambiguous answer. "There was a little movement inside when I came on duty at sunrise. I haven't heard anything since."

"Alright. I'll stay here for a moment. You go and grab a couple guys. We're loading her up on the truck."

"Yes sir." It took several men to lift the crate up onto the truck bed. Saleem was slightly concerned that he did not hear anything from the occupant – no movement or words as her wooden prison was lifted up and jolted around.

When the truck finally stopped, Saleem exited the driver's side and walked around to the back. His men lowered the back door and pushed the crate to the edge. Saleem took a long drag on his cigarette. "Open it." He was sure that she would have done what was necessary to survive, but still he needed to reassure himself that his captive was still alive. She had valuable information, he didn't doubt that; and he wanted to get that information before she died. Otherwise she was worthless.

His men slid open the lock on the crate and the door swung outward. Ziva was curled on the floor; she opened her eyes and it appeared that that effort alone was exhausting. She exerted herself to try to shift upright into a somewhat defensive position, but before she could even lift her upper body off the floor, Saleem nodded and the guards reached in to drag her out. Ziva's legs fell limply to the ground. The guards did not release her, but held her up as she tried to make her legs support her weight. They half-carried her as she stumbled between them. Saleem followed them into a small building, tossing his cigarette on the ground just before entering.

* * *

><p><strong>AN - **I've added dates in each section, since I think that my dual-timeline was a little confusing. Let me know if this helps.

**Please Review!**


	4. Chapter 4

**July 19, 2009**

The single room in the small construction was bare; light filtered through the open door and windows and illuminated the dust that hung in the air. In the center of the room was a wooden coffee table. Ziva was pushed to her knees in front of one of the narrow ends. She did not have the strength to resist as they tied her knees to the legs of the table and pushed her forward so that she was stretched face-down on the wood. Her hands were pulled above her head and secured to the far legs of the table.

Ziva's head was turned to one side and she gazed at the wall without seeing it. Saleem squatted next to her. Ziva looked past him, her breathing shallow. He took a bottle of water out of his pocket and poured about a third of it over her face. That brought Ziva back to the present, out of her dehydration-induced semiconscious state. She caught a good bit of the water in her mouth and, after Saleem stopped pouring, she licked the remaining moisture from her lips. Saleem leaned in, his face only inches from hers. "Talk to me." He ordered. "Tell me your name. Tell me what you know about NCIS. Tell me everything and you can have the rest of this water. I will stop what is about to happen and I can assure you of a quick and painless death."

Ziva's only response was to turn her head to the other side so that she didn't have to see him. She was too tired for this banter – why couldn't he have left her in there a few more days? Then she would have died and not have to suffer his questioning any more.

Saleem pushed her matted hair back from her ear and bent close. His breath was warm against her skin and she hated it. "I have a present for you, Jew – a little gift, just for you." He looked at the guards and Ziva heard one pair of footsteps turn and walk out the door. Saleem seized a fistful of her hair and turned her to face him again. He did not say anything, but held her gaze. Ziva met his eyes and stared back, unblinking and unwavering.

A shadow crossed the room and Saleem turned to look toward the door. Ziva could hear the footsteps of his guard returning. She tried to twist her head to see what was going on, but Saleem's tight grip on her hair made it impossible for her to move.

The guard reached under Ziva, between her body and the wooden table, and undid her pants. He pushed the fabric down to bunch around her knees, leaving her exposed and vulnerable. Ziva kept her face impassive, knowing that Saleem was still watching her intently.

Behind her inscrutable expression, Ziva's mind was racing. She was weak – very weak – and knew that she did not have it in her to withstand serious interrogation right now. She needed water, she needed food, she needed to rest and regain her strength. Ziva knew her own limits and she was certain that she would not be able to withstand torture in her current condition. _Everyone breaks. That is the first rule of interrogation. Everyone has limits and it is your job as the interrogator to find them_. Ziva bit her lip. She was no longer the interrogator; now she was the subject. She knew her own limits and she knew that she needed to stop this before those limits were crossed.

She listened carefully and heard the quiet buzz of electricity. A second later, she felt a hand sneak between her bare legs and a cruel metal clamp bit down on her sensitive skin. Saleem's eyes were still drilling into hers and Ziva knew could sense his excitement and anticipation. He was aroused by torturing her. That gave her an advantage. It meant that he was less focused on extracting information and more focused on gaining his own satisfaction.

Ziva heard the guard behind her moving to connect the other wire. She burned with rage and could feel her muscles straining against the ropes. Her captivity had weakened her and dehydration left her precious little strength. Ziva had been electrocuted before, both here and during her brief captivity in Iraq many years ago. In good condition, she could keep her mouth shut under such pain. These were not good conditions. She had to give them something – just enough that they would ease off and give her a food and water and time to recuperate. She squeezed her eyes closed. Her eyes burned, but there was not enough moisture left in her body to waste any on tears. "Ziva, my name is Ziva."

Saleem stood and stepped back, his arms crossed over his chest and a smug look of satisfaction on his face. "Talk."

* * *

><p><strong>September 23, 2009<strong>

The next morning, Ziva woke to the beeping of the hotel alarm clock at 0400. She jumped out of bed, surprised by the noise. As soon as she was on her feet, Ziva scoffed at herself in disgust. Since she was first trained to use a gun at 13 years of age, her reaction to being startled awake was to reach for the ever-present gun. But now – after many months in captivity – she jumped to her feet with her fists raised. It was a prepared position, but a defensive one.

Ziva hated it. She hated seeing the evidence that her time in the desert had affected her so deeply.

When she walked out the door at 6am, Ziva was starting to feel more like her old self. She had spent an hour working out, followed by the better part of an hour in the bathtub, scrubbing the rest of the desert out of her skin. Her work-out was less intense than it should have been. She had tried to keep in shape even through her imprisonment, but the long captivity had taken as much a toll on her body as it did on her psyche.

The junior NCIS agent who had been posted at her door was asleep. Ziva almost laughed when she opened the door and saw him slumped in a chair a few doors down the hall. She slipped past him and down to the lobby of the Navy Lodge. She grabbed a small breakfast, resisting the temptation to gorge herself on fresh food. She knew that her stomach had shrunk from not eating enough and that she would need to eat in moderation for the next several weeks.

The news in the lobby was on AFRTS – the Armed Forces Radio and Television Services. Ziva was just about to leave when she heard the broadcast. "_In recent news, Navy forces, in conjunction with a lead from senior NCIS agents, raided a terrorist camp in northern Somalia. They rescued an unnamed female who had reportedly been working as a US asset in the region. Sources at NCIS report that the female operative has returned to the United States and is in good physical condition."_

As she walked out the door, there was a little extra spring in her step: the fact that the Americans had publically announced her rescue meant that she was that much safer.

Ziva crossed the Navy yard quickly, making a bee-line straight to the NICS car garage. She went up the back stairs, where the cameras didn't cover. At the fourth floor, she slipped to one of the brick support columns along the back row. There was a loose brick, which Ziva carefully pried out. She reached into the crevice behind, her fingers fumbling for the small packet that she had hidden there several years before.

She pulled out the cloth pouch and opened it. There were three sets of IDs with different names, along with a thousand dollars in cash. Ziva had similar stashes in every major city where she had been assigned. Mossad agents, like Boy Scouts, were always prepared. If they were not, they died. Ziva removed half the cash and a Drivers License with matching military ID, then replaced the pouch in the cavity and pushed the brick back into place. She tucked the money and IDs into her pocket and left the garage the way she had come.

By the time she reached Gibb's house a few hours later, Ziva was wearing new clothes and had rented a car. She parked in front of his house and walked in. There was no point in knocking – Gibb's door was always open. She let herself in and headed down to the basement, where she knew she would find him. The boat was gone. The basement felt entirely too empty without it, though the smell of sawdust and bourbon still hung in the air.

"Hello, Gibbs," she said as she walked down the stairs. "Your door was open."

"It usually is," Gibbs remarked as he straightened from his work.

"I, uh, apologize for being late. The Navy Lodge I was staying at ran a surprise drill this morning, so I just..." They had actually started the drill right as she was leaving, but it made a good cover for the few hours that she had spent trying to regain her footing in the United States. She had meant to come straight here, but had found herself driving aimlessly, trying to master her own turbulent thoughts and feelings at being back in DC. "It is not important."

Gibbs leaned back against his work bench. "How are you?" he asked seriously.

Ziva closed her eyes for half a second as she was assaulted with memories. She quickly pushed them away. "I am fine, Gibbs," she said. He did not believe her; she knew that. "That is what I wished to speak to you about – among other things. First of all, I wanted to say… Thank you." She handed him the small package that she had picked up at a hardware store on the way to his house. It seemed pathetically small in comparison with the gratitude she owed him. "Which hardly seems sufficient," she apologized as Gibbs undid the drawstring. "Considering so…" Gibbs finished unwrapping it and held the small tool in both hands, running his fingers along the blade. "It is called a, um…" Ziva completely blanked on what the store clerk had told her.

"It's an old Buck-Partiss chisel," Gibbs said with a small smile.

"That is not for rescuing me; that is for leaving me in Israel," Ziva said. "You're probably wondering… perhaps I rigged it to explode." She was nervous and it was making her talk too much.

"No," Gibbs said. "I'm thinking this is a really nice chisel."

Ziva smiled. After all this time, his approval – even over something so small – was like a wave of cool, life-bringing water. "When you left me in Israel, I… I felt betrayed," Ziva confessed. Gibbs gave no response other than to continue fixing her with his penetrating gaze. "But I…" Ziva turned and paced away. "I had a long time to think about things. A very, very, _very_ long time," she said, facing him again. These words were difficult to say, and she stumbled over them for a moment. "And you were right to leave me there."

"I know," Gibbs stated.

"Well the point is, now I do too!" Ziva said earnestly. There was a pregnant pause and, when Ziva spoke again, her voice was low and serious. "I had forgotten who I could trust. We were a team. And I would like that again."

Gibbs pursed his lips as he thought and looked down at the new chisel in his hands. "You need to talk to the director."

"It is _your_ blessing I came for," Ziva whispered fiercely, trying to ignore the sharp pain that pierced her at his words. She could hear the pleading in her own voice. In any other situation, that would shame her, but not here. Not before Gibbs.

Gibbs hesitated and, for a moment, it looked like he was going to reply. But then his phone rang and he turned away from Ziva to answer it. "Yeah, Dinozzo." Ziva was unnerved by the interruption. She wanted to finish this conversation. But she bit her tongue and waited. "Really? Where?" He listened for a moment and then hung up. He turned back to Ziva. "There's been a triple homicide." He paused, "You need to talk to Leon Vance. I already told him to expect you." Ziva stood stock still as Gibbs walked past her toward the stairs. "He's not the only one you need to talk too."

Then he ran up the stairs and was gone. Ziva still did not move. She could feel tears welling up in her eyes and her lip wanted to tremble. She did not permit herself that release. It would accomplish nothing to cry. She had to accept things as they were. She had to accept that Gibbs had come to rescue her, but maybe that did not mean that he wanted her back.

* * *

><p><strong>July 19, 2009<strong>

She fed him lies. She kept most of her lies close enough to the truth that Saleem would buy her story, but did not give him any real information. Even still, Ziva knew that it was not a good sign. She had experience from the interrogator's point of view – once a subject started talking, even if they were telling lies, they were close to breaking. A real interrogator would keep pushing – would torture the subject even after they started talking just to make sure that there were no discrepancies. Fortunately for Ziva, Saleem was not a professional interrogator.

After she finished talking, Saleem untied her wrists from where they were secured to the table. His fingers were soft on her skin, gentle. Ziva pushed herself up into a kneeling position and bent to untie her legs. She kept her eyes lowered in shame as she raised her pants and secured them around her hips. Saleem put the water bottle that he had taunted her with earlier on the table and slid it to her. Ziva took it and drank deeply, draining it to the last drop. She did not look at him.

Saleem walked out and two guards came to stand on either side of her. They escorted her back to the truck and pushed her up into the back. They sat on the sides of the open truck bed and shoved her so she lay face down on the floor. All Ziva could see for the ride back was the dirt-covered floor of an old truck. Every time she stirred, one of the guards kicked her or placed his boot on the back of her head, forcing her to lay flat. The sun was low in the sky by the time they arrived back at Saleem's camp. They took her back to her cell, not bothering to bind her hands or blindfold her. She had already broken.

The cell was dark when they pushed her through the doorway and shut it and locked it behind her. Ziva stood immobile, reaching out with her senses to examine her surroundings. Outside the cell, she heard the standard noises of Saleem's men walking by and the occasional pacing of the guard stationed at her cell. Inside the cell, she felt something different from before. She listened. In the back of the cell, she heard a very faint whisper of breath. Someone was back there, trying to remain undetected.

"Who are you?" Ziva asked in gruff Arabic and tensed, preparing for a fight with whatever plant Saleem had left in here to get information from her.

There was a slight catch in the person's breathing and then a response in a quiet, soft-spoken voice. "My name is Leila – who are you?"

Ziva hesitated. But Saleem already knew her name. Even if this person in her cell were there just to pry more information from her, nothing would be lost by sharing her name. "Ziva. What are you doing here?"

"I don't know. I was in a different camp, but they sent me here."

"Who is 'they'? Where were you before? What does Saleem want with you?"

"I do not know exactly who is 'they', but I know they are part of Al-Qaida. I am Afghani and was at home when they captured me. I think they kept me in Afghanistan, but I do not know. Who is Saleem? Where are we?"

Ziva stepped cautiously forward, away from the door and into the center of the cell. Whoever this girl was, she seemed on the surface to be no threat. In reality, she seemed clueless and that alone made her dangerous. Either she was stupidly naïve or she was a poorly acting plant. She ignored the girl's questions. "What do they want with you? Why did they take you in the first place?"

"They caught me passing information to the Americans." The girl sniffled.

Ziva sat up, immediately on high alert. "Tell me about it."

* * *

><p><strong>September 23, 2009<strong>

After leaving Gibb's house, Ziva drove herself back to the base. She used her false ID to get through the gates and parked in the NCIS lot. She took the elevator directly to the director's office – Gibbs, Tony, and McGee had probably already left for the homicide scene, but Ziva didn't want to chance running into them. First, she wanted to talk to the director to determine if there was even any reason for her to stay in the US.

Ziva didn't know what she would do if NCIS didn't want her back. She could not return to Mossad – of that she was certain. She had contacts all over the world, of course, and there were always options for expatriated intelligence officers and assassins. But Ziva knew that her days as an assassin were over. After everything that had happened – everything she had seen and done – Ziva hoped that she would never take another life again.

* * *

><p><strong>Please Review!<strong>


End file.
